


Audition

by casstayinmyass



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Backstage, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bratting, Concerts, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Gay John, Guitars, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Manson Is An Asshole, Name-Calling, POV John 5, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Safe Word Denial, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24342766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: John would do anything for a chance to play in his favourite band. // They say you shouldn't meet your heroes. They're right.
Relationships: John 5/Marilyn Manson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Audition

**Author's Note:**

> I fucked with the band line-up for this era, replaced Zimmy with Skold for the sole purpose of my fondness for writing Skold as an absolute bitch. 
> 
> This is a lil bit based on the backstage-confessional ropes Manson put volunteer fans in back in the day.

Every one of John's senses was on fire. He felt as though he was buzzing, not a drop of alcohol or a single pill in his system, just high on the environment. At 23 years old, he'd been described as innocent by many, but his taste in music begged to differ. While he had never really experienced anything in these songs first hand, he loved the melodies, the art of the music and lyrics, the look of the band, but most of all, the sound of a good, wailing guitar. Being here at Ozzfest was a dream come true for him.

"I can't believe I'm really here," he said to no one in particular, and some older guy in a battle vest heard him in passing.

"Believe it, kid. Twelve dollar beer and a thousand sweaty bodies all pressed together like a meat locker!"

John frowned, but ignored the unpleasant mental image. He hadn't driven all this way for $12 beer! He'd come to see his favorite band of all time play. Along with being the best band ever and the reason he had picked up a guitar in the first place, the frontman was also his... awakening of the sexual nature. But nobody had to know that.

John wandered over to the banner that held all the band logos. There it was, just under the headlining logo of Sabbath.

Marilyn Manson.

He knew each one of the band member's full names, how long they'd been playing for, their rig rundown, make and model of choice, and a bunch of other things that could be considered creepy if you were only a casual fan. John was far beyond that. He justified it as job research.

He had this idea that wouldn't go away that he could somehow get backstage today after the show, prove his talents to the band, and they'd let him in as a backup guitar man. You know, if Tim Sköld, the man himself, ever got sick. Now, actually getting himself backstage would prove the difficult part. He didn't have big tits. He didn't have tits at all. He could act like a slutty groupie anyway and hope that Marilyn's outfits were any indication of his sexuality, but that wasn't enough to bank on. He could try and get his attention somehow, catch them by surprise. There had to be some way to get his foot in the door. Once he'd done that he'd have no problem keeping it open, he had no doubt. He had rehearsed all their songs, entire chord progressions through. He had also rehearsed all kinds of things to say. He had a personal favourite emotional support fantasy. What?! Everyone has those!

_"I've got mad shredding skills," John would say, "Wanna hear?" Manson would nod, intrigued by his boyish good looks and flowing blonde hair. But handsome as he was, looks no longer mattered. John would start playing, fingers a blur as he perfectly imitated a riff from Van Halen's Eruption, a riff he'd practiced day in and day out for years. The band would gather around slowly, in awe of his skill, and lightning would shoot out of his fingertips as he'd hit the last lick of the song._

_Ginger Fish would start the slow clap. Madonna Wayne Gacy would join in. Twiggy Ramirez would fall to his knees in reverie and Tim Sköld would wipe a single tear from his eye at the beauty of it all. Manson would stand, come over to John (their newly dubbed guitar god) and whisper in his ear: "I've got such a raging boner right now."_

John was jostled out of his fantasy as someone's giant, muscular arm whacked him in the head, spilling beer all over the place.

"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE FUCKIN' STANDING, MAN!" the huge guy shouted in his face like a drill sergeant. John rubbed beer out of his eyes. This metalhead asshole obviously had something to prove to his girlfriend.

"Yeah, buddy. Telling someone who's standing in the pit to watch it? You must have a really big dick."

Anticipating the punch, John ducked, and crawled on his hands and knees through the grass as the mini riot he started grew behind him. Finding a safer spot with calmer looking people, he popped his head up... and realized he had just crept his way up to the barricade. He was right in front center of the stage.

"What band are you here to see?" the girl next to him asked.

"Manson. You?"

"Pantera. But Manson's hardcore, man."

"Hell yeah they are."

The stage lights dimmed, and choral opera music grew from a dull trill to a crescendo. John waited with baited breath as he heard the growl that grew into a demonic roar come from the mic and ring out over the crowd, and he saw Manson hit the stage.

 _Fuck._ He was everything in person and more. John eyed him, wondering what those legs would feel like to touch. Then he forgot about that, focusing instead on the belligerent intro of Angel With The Scabbed Wings that he knew every lick of.

They played their set with John hanging on the edge of every scream, and before he knew it, they were into their last song-- 1996. Instruments were wrecked as John began to catch up and become self-aware again.

 _Oh, shit._ The band was packing up and leaving, and he was gonna lose his chance. Manson, half naked and covered in blood and beer, had already left to head backstage, as had Sköld. _Dammit!_ John thought fast, vomiting out the first unfortunate thing that came to mind to the nearest band member who would hear.

"Twiggy! Your ass looks fat!"

The minute the words left his mouth, John knew he fucked up. In fact, maybe he still had time to abandon this whole delusional fantasy anyway! Oh absolute fuck. The deranged looking bassist was already stomping his way, and John had visions of getting his head ripped off by Virgin Mary's stoned hooker cousin. He leaned down close, black shadowed eyes narrowed.

"What the fuck did you just say, you little rat?"

John blinked. "Wow. Your voice is a lot deeper than I imagined."

If the bassist had eyebrows, he would furrow them in confusion. He stood back up, downed a whole cup of beer, and leaned in unsteadily to a security guy.

_Oh double shit. Now he's gonna have you thrown out. Great going, John. A spectacular plan._

The security guy looked John square in the face, descended into the pit, and put a strong hand on his shoulder. John began to babble in a panic.

"I really am sorry. I promise if you just give me a little slack sir, I won't harass anymore bass players, I swear on my v--"

"The band would like to see you backstage."

John's eyes widened, and his heart skipped a (pounding) beat. He'd done it! He'd found a way in!

He couldn't contain his grin as he was guided through the droves of people on the way to backstage. They came through a gaggle of hot goth women standing around in skimpy outfits-- these must be the groupies.

"Hello. Sorry, hi, excuse me." John eased through them like the polite young man he was. A couple of the girls turned, watching the direction he was going, and leaned in to whisper. One of them, a redhead, looked particularly amused.

"This way," the guard told him, directing him down a long hallway. "Keep walking until the end."

John walked, and walked, until he started to feel like he was back in high school and couldn't find the right exam room. Anxiety filled him. If he turned around and asked the not-so-nice looking guard, that would be totally uncool. Still. If someone was to come out and see him wandering around backstage aimlessly, he'd get a spiky platform boot up his ass. He turned to ask for directions again, but the security guy was gone.

"Haha! Pick it up, Pogo. Lick it. Lick it! Stick it to your balls!"

A chorus of laughter came from one room, and John walked a bit further before finally coming to it. His eyes widened as he read the name on the door. _This was it. Oh god, oh fuck._ John took a deep breath, calming himself. _Just treat it like any other audition! Be confident. Be overconfident. Be the rock star you were born to be._

He walked into the room, and the laughter died. John almost had a coronary as every pair of eyes belonging to every human being he worshipped was currently on him. In moments like these, he usually launched into a tirade about his favourite vintage Gibson Paul shredder model or his favourite scene in Creature From The Black Lagoon, but words didn't exist in his head at the moment, and he had a feeling those types of words wouldn't be wholly appreciated here. He swallowed, managed a small smile that must have looked more like a cringe. Twiggy glared at him, moping.

"That's him. The guy who said I had a fat ass." The keyboardist behind him busted into obnoxious laughter, and Twiggy tried to hit him, missing by a mile. "How can he even see my ass in this dress?" He approached, sneering at him and grabbing him by the collar.

"Look, I didn't mean--" John started, but Manson, oh god, _Marilyn Manson_ got up, pulling his bassist off him.

"Nah. Twiggy could use a little humility."

Unwilling to argue with the frontman, Twiggy just grumbled, picking up the sandwich from the floor and taking a bite. He gagged a little.

"Is this the one Pogo just rubbed on his balls?"

More laughter, and John looked around awkwardly. He took in everything in the room. There was catering obviously provided by the event, which the band had completely destroyed. Crushed up cans of diet coke laid next to crushed up lines of actual coke, and John felt his mouth hang open. This was real rock star shit. They actually trash their dressing rooms and... and do drugs and stuff! Not that John wanted to do that. No, he was only interested in one thing... and he just found them. The guitars. They were beautiful. They were gorgeous. They were everything he'd ever dreamed of and more.

"If you don't close that mouth, someone's gonna put a dick in it," Pogo snarked. John abruptly shut his mouth, surprised.

"I apologize for him," Ginger said, "He's got no filter."

"Shut up, Ginger," Manson said, "Nobody asked you to apologize to the fucking groupie."

"Oh, I'm not a groupie," John said quickly.

"Then why are you standing in our dressing room?"

John looked around, and swallowed. This was his moment. "I'm here to audition."

"You're what?" Twiggy blurted.

"Audition," John said, with a little more force. He changed his stance to seem a little more effortless, sticking his hands in the pockets of his black denim shorts. "Just gimme one of those guitars over there, and I'll show you what I can do. You're gonna love it. Trust me." _This is it. This is the part where I get to play my solo and prove myself. THE moment. The Eruption!_

"Ah ah," a voice came from the back room, "Those guitars over there happen to belong to someone."

Out stepped Tim Sköld. John started to smile, and walked up to him.

"Holy shit. Wow. I just want to say, I am your biggest fan. You're the reason I picked up a guitar-- you're a legend."

Tim took one languid look at him, scoffed, and brushed past. "And he says he's not a groupie."

John felt like his entire body had just been crushed by that muscular metalhead from earlier.

"That wasn't very nice." John turned to see Manson standing, defending him. Every other band member turned to look at the frontman, startled. Usually he was the meanest of all of them. Manson just glanced around the room, before approaching John. "He's obviously a big fan. No need to crush the kid's dreams." Twiggy whispered something to Ginger, who shrugged. Manson smirked, then put on a serious face again as he turned to regard their visitor. "You want to audition? I'll let you audition."

Skold rolled his eyes, putting his boots up on the table, and Pogo began to nod as he realized what was happening. Manson led John to a conjoining room with a couch.

"I just need a guitar."

"Nah, you don't need a guitar." John frowned a little.

"I'm gonna need a guitar to play a song, Manson." The frontman raised his eyebrow bones at the name, and John cleared his throat. “Sir.” 

"We'll get to the guitar. First you gotta show you've got what it takes." Oh. So hazing type things. That's cool. He could do that.

Manson's lips twisted up in a smirk. "Take your shirt off."

John swallowed. "What?"

"Things are gonna get a little sweaty. Take your shirt off."

 _Oh._ Well, John supposed he was right. If he was really gonna pull off this shredding, he'd probably get hot. And they're probably also checking out the goods! They're always half naked on stage, why wouldn't he be?

John proudly took off his shirt, displaying his pale chest with a few chinese-style tattoos.

"Very nice. You're a cocky little twink." Manson's eyes swept over him, and he clucked his tongue. "Get down on your knees." John stared for a moment, until Manson snapped. "Hey! Did you hear me?! Get down on your fucking knees!"

John didn't know whether the singer was gonna use his mouth or have him shot, and he didn't really want to find out. He had no time to back out, though. Manson was on his feet. John felt fingers grip his chin, a rough grip from smooth long digits. The black nails dug into his neck, and he bit his bottom lip. Manson leaned down, tightening his grip on the younger man's chin, and bit John's bottom lip for him. John recoiled at the pain, but Manson jerked him back.

"If you're gonna work for me, I own you," he growled. "I have to check and see if the merchandise tastes good." There it was. All those niceties were a facade-- the real monster beneath bared his teeth.

"I-Is there... is there some kinda safe word I can use if we're...?" John begins, unsure of how to finish that question. Pogo barked a laugh from the background of what would be a very fucked up renaissance painting. Manson just scoffed.

"You don't get a safe word. Do we use safe words, Twiggy?"

"No, we don't."

"No. Unless you think you're special... do you?"

"Um," the blonde choked out. “Is this is a trick question?”

"Are you stupid?" John figured this wasn’t such a good time to quote Forrest Gump in response, so he just shook his head. “Really?” His voice sounded amazing in the low drawl, and John cursed himself out for getting hard from it. "You hear me? You think you're special?"

"Obviously he does," Skold mentioned, unbothered by the display before him. "He thought he'd just come in here and we'd fall at his feet."

"Mm. That attitude's gotta go," Manson said. "See, I'm the one who everyone here grovels to."

"Not true!" Pogo shouted.

"Shut the fuck up, Pogo. John needs to learn his lesson, and you're not helping."

"I... I understand," John tried to say, but Manson slapped him in the face. John looked either ready to fight or ready to cry. Manson was interested in which one it would be, but for now, he just stayed there on his knees.

"This is boring," Twiggy moaned. Manson went and got something from the other room. Ropes. That should break this kid good.

"I'm gonna put you in these. If you move too much, it'll choke you to death. Think you can do it?"

John swallowed. He wanted to be a part of this-- badly. He couldn't say no now. He nodded, and the ropes were introduced to his body. John let himself get tied, and Manson stalked around him, surveying his position. "Meow like a cat," he instructed.

"Um, this--" John began to reply, but Manson grabbed the rope suspending him, tightening its chokehold. John began to meow shakily.

"You make a good kitty," Manson said, and John thought the approval meant he'd be released. Then again, John may have known every little fact he'd read about him, but he didn't know Manson-- that much was clear.

"You're not a kitty though, are you?" Manson asked, still walking around him. John was apprehensive-- he felt unsafe whenever Manson disappeared from view, as if anything could happen and he wouldn't be ready for it. He didn't much like surprises, which was too bad for him. "No," Manson drawled, trailing his fingers down the back of John's neck. "You're a whore."

"What?" John tried to choke out.

"You're a fucking whore, you mean shit. I bet you would take my cum and like it, swallow it all if I asked you to."

John swallowed, imagining vividly the rock star’s cum running down his throat. This was nothing like how he pictured it before-- there was some part of Manson's statement that was true. When John jerked off, he imagined himself being used, but not like that. _Still..._ "Is this an erection I see?" Manson asked, and Twiggy snickered. John's face burned. He was beyond embarrassed-- he didn't want the rest of the band watching, looking at him suspended helpless like this. John felt the ropes tighten. "I asked you a fucking question, slut."

"Y-yes!" Well, he couldn't very well lie. He shivered at the idea of what Manson would do if he dared not tell the truth.

Then it seemed as if a lightbulb went off above Manson's head. "Are you a virgin?"

John squeezed his eyes shut. Could Manson tell if he was telling the truth or not? This time, there was no obvious way he could. Unless he...

"No. No, I’m not." 

The rock star turned to the rest of the band, grinned at them. "Let's take bets."

"He's full of shit," Pogo called.

"Mhm," Twiggy nodded. "Lies."

"I'll bet the little guy’s telling the truth," Skold smirked. "Just to play devil's advocate."

Manson turned his attention back to John, whose embarrassment had increased tenfold. "You telling the truth?"

"Yes."

"I'm gonna fuckin' check--"

"Wait! Wait, I..." John bit back a sob. "Fine. I'm a virgin."

"Knew it," Twiggy muttered.

"I've... I've blown guys before. But I've never..."

"Hey. Nothing to be ashamed of," Manson drawled, "That just means you're tighter."

"Please," John said, really starting to panic. "I'll do anything."

"Relax kid, I'm not gonna shove anything up your ass. Least of all my cock-- if I was gonna fuck anything, it'd be your mouth, but that's currently inaccessible. And I know you'll do anything, because what are you?"

John swallowed with humility so quickly rehearsed. "I'm a slut."

"Whose slut?"

"Yours."

"You're just gonna leave out the rest of the band like that?" Manson gestured to everyone, and took John's chin. John swallowed.

"I belong to all of you."

"Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry."

"Mean it."

John whimpered, looking around as he was forced to meet everyone's eyes by Manson's grip on him. "I'm so sorry!"

"Mmmm." Manson let him go. "Now I'm jealous. I’m the head of this band. I think I want you all to myself."

"Why don't you make up your mind?"

A stunned bout of silence surrounds them at John’s retort, then Manson slaps John so hard he jerks, and the ropes tighten. He took the American flag he had wiped his ass with onstage earlier, and used it to blindfold John tightly. He then took the underwear from a costume change that were strewn across the couch, and jammed them in John's mouth.

"You wanna be a part of this band?" Manson growls, and John jerks to try and figure out where he is. He gave a cruel laugh. “You wanna play with us?” This only tightens the ropes, and he begins to see stars in his black vision. "First I play with you. I break you, so I can put you back together again how I like you. And I don't like you mouthing off, fucker."

John gave one last cry of anguish through the gag, and Manson left. He just left the room. The others followed, and John began to panic even more. They weren't gonna leave him here, were they? For how long? That same learned fear tugged at him. If he asked how long or made any kind of protest, the ropes would be tightened and would probably kill him. What was one inconsequential groupie after all? They were mega rock stars. They could have the guy who lead him in here dispose of his body with no witnesses except for those goth girls hanging around! Hell, they were probably into this kind of shit, which is why Manson kept them around. How many people had they done this to before? How had those girls survived all this?!

John had no idea something like this would happen-- everyone's story of meeting their favorite celebrity was always "they look so _mean_ but they're a sweetheart in person!" For John to think Manson would be a sweetheart in any way was fucking delusional on his part, he'd admit that now. But still. Stringing him up and leaving him hanging in ropes? This guy was a psychopath. But…

There was that spark of interest he saw in Manson's eyes, and John wasn't stupid. He may have been a virgin, but not in every sense of the word. He knew what he could do to get out of a bad situation, and make it just mildly inconvenient for himself instead of deadly. He'd still do anything for a chance to play, and this wasn’t how rock stars were treated.

He spat the panties out. "Get back over here or I'm gonna burn your whole fucking set to the ground when you let me go!"

This got Manson's attention. John heard him come back into the room, and heard the stomping footsteps stop in front of them. "What the fuck did you just say?" John waited for the slap or the fatal tightening of the ropes-- they didn't come. Manson wasn't stupid either. He knew moving John even more would kill him... maybe disposing of the body would've been easy at his own show, but at a festival? It would never get past security. "You like to run this mouth, huh?"

"Why don't you use my mouth, and find out what else I can do with it?"

John heard the sound of a snip, and his body hit the floor with a startling thud. He suppressed a groan, but he barely had time to recover before he felt rough hands pick him up and settle him back on bruised knees.

However fucked up it was, John couldn't ignore the fact that this was the hardest he'd ever been.

He felt the hands move up, heard pants unzipping. John opened his mouth, and felt (who he assumed and hoped to be Manson's) cock enter his mouth. It slipped past his lips and didn’t stop. By the slamming pace and the inconsiderate frequency with which this person hit the back of his throat and tried to shove himself deeper, John was 90% that it was Manson.

"Rmm gmmg," John tried to speak, gagging and gasping for air.

"Kittens don't talk," Manson snapped above him, "Especially when they're getting face fucked." A groan punctuated this, and the rock star tossed his head back, using John's mouth faster and faster, messy thrusts oblivious to John’s comfort. His hands were buried deep in blonde hair, jerking him on and off his cock like John was a ragdoll. John tried to speak again, repeating the same thing. 

"What?!" Manson finally muttered, and allowed John a moment to breathe.

"R... remove the blind...fold..."

Manson obliged faster than John thought he would, ripping it away. John's cock jerked as he saw the hard, spit slick member waiting in front of him. He didn't have much time to admire the object of his fantasies for too long, before he was shoved back onto it. He gagged and gulped, the obscene wet noise of cock-sucking filling the small backstage lounge. The rest of the band had lost interest in the display. John faintly heard sniffing sounds in the other room; at this point, their interest would probably only be aroused if John passed out or died. This was fine with him. He'd rather have Manson all to himself-- or as the rock star had put it, have John all to _him_ self.

John reached down to his aching erection, and Manson kicked his hand away, replacing it with his foot. He began to massage John's bulge with it, since his hands were busy violently forcing John's head back and forth.

"I don't wanna see a drop of my cum, you understand me you fucking whore?" Manson growled. "I see one drop wasted down your chin, I'll choke you myself." John moaned, and tried to nod as best he could. "You gonna be a good little cumdump...?" He paused. "What the fuck is your name, anyway?"

"Jo--ohn..." He moaned as Manson used his heel to rub harder against his dick.

"John. Okay, John. I'm gonna give you five seconds to take the breath you need to swallow my cock down. John? Five." He hesitated. "John Five. Sounds nice." John could barely think, let alone agree. Manson pushed even harder into John's mouth, then the blonde felt him still at the back of his throat. A string of wild obscenities fell from Manson's lips, and his toes curled on John's cock, stimulating his orgasm as well. Riding his own high but conscious of the rocker's threat, John did his best to swallow all he could. He nearly had heart failure when a bit dripped from the corner of his mouth. Manson crouched down, tilting his chin up and inspecting with intense eyes that made John want to wither up over what he had just done.

"I'll give that a pass," Manson whispered, collecting the drop with his thumb and sucking it into his own filthy mouth. "Since you're supposedly a blushing little virgin."

He let John go, and the blonde collapsed on the floor. He felt like throwing up all the semen and beer he had in his system from the pure adrenaline and fear of all this, but despite his spinning head and over-exerted body, he couldn't do anything but retch. He found himself reverting to his coping mechanism: what would a guitar god do in this situation? Oh, fuck it. He didn't even want to think about what this meant for the rest of the trip he had made out here, the rest of the night, the rest of his career, the rest of his fantasies. All he knew was, he could barely move a muscle, and now that they had had their fun with a nameless fan, he was probably about to get thrown back into that crowd.

"So," he heard from the other room. "John 5! You gonna come in here and play guitar for us, or what?" 


End file.
